Open Writing

As Lorna put her key in the front door it opened. It was no longer locked. An icy trickle of dread slipped down her spine. He was here again, her son. In what condition would he be in this time? On which drugs was he now dependant? Was he hiding from the law? But there was one thing of which she was sure, he’d be after money. Well he wasn’t getting it this time.

Lorna pushed back her faded red hair with a hand marked by age and hard work, and walked into her living room. He was there perched like a raven on the arm of a chair.

'Just thought I'd call and say hello, Ma.' He was wary, his voice a little shrill around the edges.

'How did you get in?' Was his mother's greeting.

He attempted a placating grin. 'Oh, I’ve had a bit of practice.'

'If by that you mean breaking into houses I hope the police catch you.'

He stood and moved towards her, tall, pallid, undernourished, as though he spent too much time in dark places. 'But you don’t Ma, do you? You wouldn’t like the neighbours to think that your son was a jailbird. Just think my picture would be in all the papers.'

When she didn’t reply, he continued, 'So it would be better all round if you were to simply give me a few hundred bucks and I’ll be off, out of your hair so to speak.'

'No,' she said. 'No, I told you last time, no more.'

'But I need it now.' There was an edge of desperation in his voice. 'Now, it will be mine anyway when you are gone.'

She heard the emphasis on gone. She saw the growing madness in his eyes and she knew such madness cannot be beaten with reason. A little thought lurking at the edge of her subconscious, moved her seemingly reluctantly across the room to her late husband’s cedar cabinet, the place where he kept his whisky and his gun. 'Very well I’ll go to the bank but you must promise never to ask again.'

He promised, he’d promised before.

As she opened the door he spotted the whisky, as she knew he would. 'Get yourself a glass from the kitchen,' was all she said.

Lorna moved quickly. Bert had been a racing man and had often kept large sums of money in this cabinet with his whisky, with his loaded gun. He had invented an intricate device whereby the trigger could be pulled and the gun fired by pushing a button concealed within the cabinet. Lorna adjusted the position of the scotch bottle and went to join her son in the kitchen. As he turned towards her, glass in hand, she tripped, knocking it across the room and smashing it. In the ensuing confusion she shouted at him that it was his fault for being in the way and if wanted her to get him money he could jolly well clean up the mess.

Then she opened the door and left. It was a beautiful afternoon, quiet and sunny. Lorna paused briefly to call hello to her next-door neighbour and waved to an old lady who lived two doors down.

And then a gunshot broke the silence.

© Colleen McMillan